Cloaked
by Crowsnight66
Summary: I don't know why I decided to walk through the woods so late at night. That's asking for trouble, isn't it?


**Warning: This story is rated T for dark themes and references to murder.**

 **Note: Based on a writing prompt I found on Pinterest.**

" _ **You don't strike me as a professional criminal."**_

" _ **That's what makes me so good at it."**_

 **Another Note: I do not condone murder in any way. Anything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and does not reflect on my personal beliefs.**

 _ **Cloaked**_

" _We don't know the days that will change our lives. Probably just as well."_

― _Stephen King_

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

I don't know why I decided to walk through the woods so late at night. That's asking for trouble, isn't it?

But it's so beautiful tonight. A full moon to light the path and spring flowers blooming overnight. The autumn leaves have long since been blown off the trail, letting my feet fall silently. And so lost in the night's beauty, my ears react late to the sound of…a shovel and dirt?

When I turn my head towards the sound, I see a figure hunched over slightly, definitely digging. Or…now that I look more carefully…burying. Something.

I don't know why the figure stills. I didn't step on any twigs and I didn't try to hide. But it straightens. I'm not too close, but when it whips out something and I hear a click, I feel close enough that I don't want to risk…well, if it's a gun….

"Stay where you are." The voice is definitely masculine. It also has an accent, and being from London, I recognize a French accent when I hear one. "If you move, I will not hesitate to shoot you."

My heart starts to beat faster, blood rushing in my ears as the man drops the shovel out of his other hand and begins to walk closer. I try to regulate my breathing, keep my eyes down, and calm myself down, but it's hard to do when cold metal presses against my temple. I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes shut.

"Relax, _mon cher_ ," the man says. "I do not hurt the innocent."

When he pulls the gun away, I exhale a shuddering breath that I desperately try to keep quiet.

"Here is the deal: you leave now and pretend you saw nothing. Do you understand?"

"I understand," I whisper.

"Good. Now run along. I would so hate for a bad man to find you."

So as soon as he steps away, I do. Run, that is. I run the way I had come and pray that my legs will last until I reach my car at the main road. It isn't far, and when I finally lock myself into my Malibu, I grip the steering wheel and take deep breaths.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

A few weeks go by, and I am content to put the incident in the back of my mind to die.

That is, until I'm drinking tea at a café near my apartment and someone sits down at my table. For a moment, I don't even say anything despite myself because…well, _because_. The man is beautiful. Bright, amazingly blue eyes, blonde hair that curls at his shoulders, and long, manicured fingers around his coffee mug. His attire is sinfully casual as well, black jeans and a long-sleeved button-up that matches his eyes.

I clear my throat. "Pardon me, but there are other tables available."

"I am aware." My blood runs cold. "You simply interest me."

I swallow thickly, grip tightening on my teacup. "And why is that?"

"You hold your ground." That French accent, smooth and sweet to everyone else around. "You do not need to be so frightened. I told you before, did I not? I do not hurt the innocent."

"As long as you're the judge, I don't know who is innocent and guilty," I say into my teacup before I take another sip.

"And that is why you interest me," the man replies. "My name is Francis." When I don't reply, he continues, "And yes, that is my real name. A first name will not hurt, _oui_?"

"It's Arthur."

"Beautiful," Francis says. Then he sips his coffee, makes a face at it, and sets it aside. "Drive with me."

"Do I appear insane to you?" I ask. He wouldn't pull out a gun in the middle of the city, would he?

Francis smiles, without malice or threat. "Only slightly, _mon ange_. I just wish to speak with you when we will not be overheard. I assume you would be more comfortable in your own vehicle?"

"Is this a threat or not?"

"Not."

I study him for a moment because―no, I'm not considering it. At all. He pointed a _gun_ at me and now he wants me to hop in the car with him? But he is slightly interest― _No_!

 _I really am insane_.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

"Here," Francis says as he pulls a folded knife from his belt and then another from his boot. He hands them both to me. "Those are the only weapons I have on me." I raise my eyebrow at him, and he smirks, putting his arms out on either side of him. "If you would like to check, pat me down." He winks. "I do not mind."

"Pervert," I grumble as I slip into the driver seat. I put the knives into the compartment in side of the door.

Francis settles into the passenger seat. "Only when I see someone I like."

"You can lay off; I don't fancy you in the slightest."

"Even though you invited me into your vehicle for a drive?" He doesn't give me a chance to protest. "Do you fancy women or men?"

"My preference is none of your business," I growl, pulling out of the parking lot. I'm not really sure where I plan to go; maybe I'll just drive around the back roads. That would leave me _really_ alone with Francis though….

"Men then. A straight man would say as much immediately if asked."

I scowl. "Is there nothing else you can talk about?"

"Possibly," he says, putting his arm on the rest between the seats and leans on it. I try to lean away. "I know that you want to know more about me."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Then why agree to this?"

I don't reply.

"You want to know exactly what I was doing that night."

"You were burying a body, yes?" I say. And there's something wrong with me that I'm not vomiting just thinking about it, about having him in my car.

Francis nods. "That is correct."

"Why?"

"Why bury her or why kill her?" He says it smoothly, unhesitatingly.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

"I am not a bad man, Arthur. That woman cheated on and verbally abused her husband, and that is aside from what she did to her children."

"Still a murderer."

"Vigilante."

I scoff. "I should report you to the police."

"I held you at gunpoint and you did not go to the police."

"How do you know that?"

"Intuition," he says, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me. "I think that your sense of justice is as warped as mine, so I am not worried about _you_ telling the police."

A few minutes pass in silence.

"Why do you do it? What do you get out of killing people?" At a stoplight, I look at him long enough to give him a glare. "You get off on it?"

"Of course not!" And Francis has an expression of utter disgust, like I actually offended him. "On the dark side of the internet, people will pay thousands and hundreds of thousands of dollars to see someone dead. I only kill the ones who deserve it."

"You place a value on their lives as if you were God," I say as I continue driving.

" _Everyone_ treats themselves as God. Murderers aren't the only ones. Every time someone lies, they place a value on the people they lie to and decide that they are not worth the truth. Is it so different?"

"You _kill_ people!"

"I find the people who have gone unpunished and receive payment."

"By killing them."

"Yes."

I can only look at him in short intervals, but I try to make the most of each glance. His expression never changes, always blank. "It's wrong."

"I never said it was right; I said that I am not a bad man and that the people I have killed were not innocent."

"No one is innocent," I say. "We all have our wrongdoings, but that doesn't mean we deserve to be killed."

Francis pauses. "But then you are passing judgment on what they deserve."

"No, I'm―" I cut myself off. "Murder is wrong. That's what it comes down to."

"What about prison?"

"What about it?"

"Rape is wrong, _oui_?"

"Yes."

"But prison rape is very real. Is it still 'what they deserve' if the jury sends a person to prison, knowing that the criminal will likely be raped?" Francis hums. "In my opinion, rape is much worse than murder, so am I doing such an injustice?"

I open my mouth to reply, but…nothing happens. Words won't come out.

Soon after, I turn around and head back to the café. And when I park, I reach into the side of the door, pulling out the two knives, but Francis shakes his head.

"Keep them," he says. "Call it…a goodwill parting."

"As long as it's not a courtship gift," I grumble.

Then Francis smirks. "The courtship gift will be teaching you how to use them."

"Get out, frog."

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

A year later, I could easily kill someone with my blades, including my teacher. And I threaten to occasionally, but I never follow through.

Every few weeks, Francis comes home with dirt on his hands, and to me, it's blood. But the Francis I sleep with at night, the Francis that cooks for me and watches movies with me, the Francis that smiles with the brightest blue eyes over the rim of a cup of coffee―

That Francis is different from the Francis that comes home with dirt on his hands, cloaked in darkness so thick that I know I can never dig him out. I never see the vigilante Francis or the Francis that searches the web for his next target. I don't chastise him for what he does, I don't ask about it, and as much as I can, I don't mention it.

But I will never wash his hands of the dirt.


End file.
